One Little Slip
by Assonant
Summary: The Holmes brothers are brilliant and influential. They are rarely wrong. But when they are, consequences are huge and harsh. They have no right to play puppet-master, especially over one Doctor John Watson. And he's going to show them why.
1. Chapter 1

He was busy at the moment, so very busy, but he had seen the stunned reactions on his monitor. How could he not? He did have cameras. But despite many claims, he did have a heart, a soul, feelings. He did worry about what this would do to his brother, he did, but there was something more.

He was worried more about what it would do if the other man was forced to stay.

Predictably, his phone rang. He could see the younger man on the monitor, after all. He looked a myriad of emotions as his flatmate left.

"HOW COULD YOU!"

The voice at the other end of the phone sounded anguished.

"Calm down."

"Change the orders! Fix them! I'll do anything!"

Sherlock Holmes was begging. He was pleading. It was something the consulting detective didn't do. But the man was doing it, things he never did, for Doctor John Watson.

"Don't make him go, don't let him leave. Fix it." Deep breathing, obviously trying to calm down. "Help me, Mycroft. Please."

Mycroft Holmes sighed, rubbing his head. What Sherlock wanted him to do wasn't impossible. He didn't want his only friend to be redeployed, which made sense. Who would want that for someone they cared about? Who would want that at all for a good man like John Watson?

But Mycroft knew something had changed since That Night. Yes, that incident received capital letters, because he had almost lost his family, his only family, at that bloody public pool. He had retrieved both of them and they hadn't found James Moriarty (and they had tried. Mycroft had made and was still making an _extensive_ effort). What had changed, Mycroft didn't know, but John Watson hadn't seemed the same since. It was subtle, the change, so subtle that even Sherlock hadn't noticed it.

He had seen it, though. And John Watson had looked so elated when he had gotten the orders to return, who was he to deny the doctor?

But how could he deny his brother, his only family?

He couldn't. Not when his brother was normally so proud that he never accepted help, never asked for it. He could not deny him.

"All right, Sherlock. All right. I'll fix it," Mycroft said.

It was one of the few mistakes that either Holmes brother had ever made.

It was also the worst.


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you mean, a mistake?" John Watson was on the phone, arguing. "I received the paperwork!"

Sherlock was his usual self, in the kitchen looking over a body part for some reason or another. He managed to keep his elation at John not leaving hidden.

Mycroft was watching the scene, as usual, from afar. John hung up the phone, slowly, his gaze on Sherlock. "Unbelievable."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't believe you had my deployment canceled." John looked angry. "There are _lives_ at stake, Sherlock! Actual human-actually, no, I forgot. You don't care. You don't care about anyone but yourself and your work." He stood.

"I've upset you."

"Brilliant deduction." John ground out sarcastically. "A time I could actually be useful, something I'm actually good at, and you manage to take it away."

"I will neither confirm nor deny that I took it away."

"No, you just took steps to ensure that the proper people in authority would." A deep breath, "I'm not dealing with this right now. I'm going out." John slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock looked towards where he knew the camera his brother had hidden to be and tilted his head, obviously confused. Mycroft couldn't understand it either. Didn't the doctor see that Sherlock had obviously thought of him? He was good for Sherlock, Mycroft could see that. How could he say that Sherlock only cared about himself?

One thing the doctor had learned was the paths out of the vision of cameras. Mycroft wasn't sure if he should be amused by that or not. It seemed that the man had learned something from his brother after all.

It took a bit of flipping around, but finally Mycroft caught sight of John walking. Not much else, just... walking. He had no cane, no tremor... time with Sherlock had fixed that. Mycroft couldn't help but smile a bit. He had been right about the friendship of the two. The doctor was a patient man, he would understand in time.

John went into a cafe, which had no camera sadly, but left with tea. He was walking, irritation still obvious even as he sat at a park bench to finish his tea. The angle wasn't great, but Mycroft could still keep an eye on his brother's friend.

The doctor sat for a few moments before his phone rang. It was easy for Mycroft to listen in.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Watson? It's Lestrade."

A sigh, "Sherlock not answering his phone?"

"No, just... had a case here but... it... I don't think..." Lestrade sighed and said, "The killer left something for you. We looked at it but we don't understand it. It's a card."

"Like a business card?" John asked.

"Like a greeting card," Lestrade answered.

A sigh, "I'll be there. Where are you?"

He was told the address and John Watson took a cab to the location.

It was not a nice sight that greeted the doctor, three headless bodies and a blood covered room, but the officers there all knew him, greeting him with more respect, Mycroft noted, than they gave Sherlock. Perhaps because the doctor didn't insult them as much.

The card was a cheerful, chipper greeting card, with a picture of a sun smiling on some flowers. John opened the card.

_Johnny __boy__, __Johnny __boy__,_

_So__ obvious__ he__'__s__ Sherlock__'__s __toy__!_

_Won__'__t __let __them__ send __him __back__,_

_It__'__s __obvious __that __they __think__ he__'__s __a__ quack__._

_We__'__re__ going __to __play __a__ game__,_

_And __nothing __will __be __the __same__._

_Come__ now__, __doctor__, __be __of __good __cheer__,_

_War__'__s__ what __you __wanted __and__ so __I __am __here__._

_It__ seems__ what__ I__ said__ at__ the__ pool__ was__ true__,_

_And __so __I __hope __you __find __my __clue __to __you__,_

_Lest__ your__ sister__ chokes__ on__ her__ favorite __brew__,_

_But __this __is __only __for __you__,_

_So __no __dragging __Sherlock __too__!_

_Love__,_

_Jim_

"... He's... inviting me to play a game? Like what he did with Sherlock?" John was obviously confused. "But I'm not like them."

"You were redeployed?" Sally Donovan asked.

"Huh?" John looked and saw the papers had fallen from his pocket. "I was, but not anymore. It's... complicated." He picked up the papers before he looked around the crime scene and back at the card.

"Do you have any idea what he could have meant by the clue to you?" Lestrade asked.

"Just give me a bit to think," John said, sighing. "Earlier I was thinking about how I'd be back in Afghanistan and now I'm involved in some game of Moriarty's. I'll have to tell Sherlock-"

"You can't," Donovan said. "Look at your card again."

Lestrade looked tired as he said, "We were worried about this mad man. He even got away from Sherlock. We thought, since he threatened your sister's life, it'd be better to get you."

"It's obvious he's trying to make me go insane," John said quietly. "But... I can't go back with this. Sherlock will know immediately and won't take no for an answer. And I can't stay at Sarah's. After my almost dying again, she..."

Mycroft knew he was right about Sherlock and so sent the doctor a text with an address and the words: safe house.

Moriarty had instructed John to not tell Sherlock. He hadn't mentioned Mycroft, after all.

And yet... for some reason, the elder Holmes brother had a distinct feeling the doctor was in more danger now than he would have been on the battlefield.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing was coming up from the police reports on the bodies, there was nothing. Utterly nothing.

What clue could be there?

John was frustrated and wanted to scream, that much was obvious.

Mycroft clicked it together and sent him a text stating '_It's a specific brand of card, only sold in one shop, Pine Stationary. -MH'_

The doctor looked at the text and his eyes lit up in obvious relief.

It went away after two seconds when another text showed up.

_Big Brother wants to play? Didn't I say only you? Well, I'll make an exception this one time, but no more, Johnny boy! Hope you can get to the shop soon or well... I'll just let you think of the possibilities!_  
_-Jim_

John's eyes widened and he pulled up a map on his phone, then the doctor began to run.

"Doctor Watson!" Some of the officers from Scotland Yard yelled.

"Donovan, Anderson, stay with him!" Lestrade commanded. The two nodded and did just that, barely managing to keep up with the doctor. He did have more experience running towards scenes after all.

The three made it there in a little under fifteen minutes, all panting heavily. The windows of the shop were smashed in and what looked like odd numbers were there, coating the shop, written all over the walls.

John raised an eyebrow, staring at the numbers. Anderson and Donovan had begun to document but John's eyes widened.

"ICD codes," he murmured, looking at them.

"What?" Donovan asked.

"They're how we diagnosis diseases," John answered. "We use numbers, they're called ICD codes. But there are way too many here. What..." He looked frustrated and wanted to hit something. "I'm bloody useless..."

"Calm down," the female officer said, while Anderson called for backup.

"Backup's on the way," Anderson muttered.

"I shouldn't have backup," John said quietly. "He forbade help."

"I don't think he considers us help," Donovan said, looking irritated.

John took out the greeting card and glared at the taunt once more.

"What does he mean, Doctor Watson?" Anderson asked. "Any ideas?"

"I think the first bit is just a taunt," John said, looking over it. "The bit about being a toy, he called me Sherlock's 'pet.'" The word was spat out distastefully. "The part about being a quack, that's probably due to my deployment being overridden."

"The freak must have been pissed at that," Donovan said, smirking.

John looked irritated, "I must admit, I didn't think he was that selfish. He always insults me but won't let me go. I thought we were friends but it must be hard for his bloody intellect to have common sense sometimes." The doctor calmed himself, "The game, that's obvious enough, he played one with Sherlock. I don't know why he targeted me."

"What did he say at the pool?" Anderson inquired.

The doctor grew quiet, looking into the shop, but the backup had arrived.

The mess of officers and explanations grew but only Mycroft, watching intently through cameras and phones, noticed when Doctor John Watson quietly slipped away and called a cab. Only Mycroft was able to hear him calling his sister's phone.

"John?" a voice slurred. "Wha... wha ya' wan'?"

John sighed in relief, "Harry, go to a friend's house, all right? I need to borrow your flat."

"Wha? I don' wanna..."

A cold, harsh tone that Mycroft had never expected from the doctor, "Harriet."

Mycroft flickered to watch Harriet Watson's reaction and noticed she seemed as if someone had just thrown a bucket of cold water on her. She shuddered at the tone of her brother's voice, "I-I'm sorry John," she managed. "I'll pack and be gone by tomorrow-"

"No. You'll leave now. Explain it's an emergency. I'm on my way now. Be gone by then." He hesitated and said, "Is my old trunk there?"

"Y-Yes, I didn't move it."

"Excellent," John said briskly.

"Is... Is everything all right, John?" Harry asked, her voice timid and quiet.

"Why?"

"Your friend, he's outside, your weird-"

Cursing. "I can't see Sherlock right now, you... Harry, get out of there, do you hear me? Get out of there and _don't touch anything!_"

Mycroft watched as Harriet Watson ran from the building but it exploded.

John stared at the mobile phone for a second before screaming, "Harry? HARRY!"

"Mate, you might-" the cabbie began, as they reached the site, but John didn't falter, he simply got out the cab and ran towards the commotion.

"John-!"

"Shut up Sherlock," John snapped, moving through the rubble. "Just shut up!"

Mycroft sent his people to the scene, going himself as well.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock demanded. "You actually managed to leave your office? I'm impressed."

"Harry," John whispered as the brothers argued. Both stopped when they saw him tenderly pulling her from the rubble. "Oh God, Harry..."

She was alive, but unconscious, hardly so. Mycroft dismissed it. She probably had had worse from her drinking binges.

The doctor stayed with her until they brought her to an ambulance, but a text to his phone got his attention.

_Nice friends you have, this one is good at finding flatmates isn't he? -Jim_

Sherlock and Mycroft had both read the message and John jumped away from them. "Stop it!" He snapped, angry. "I have to do this alone!"

"John, you don't have a chance alone," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

_I thought I said alone, Johnny boy. So sad, too bad! -Jim_

The sound of an explosion from the direction the ambulance had left made them stare, Sherlock ready to run for another clue and Mycroft watching John Watson carefully.

The doctor was furious and sad and just a myriad of emotions. "You Holmes folks," he said quietly, making Sherlock turn, curious. John was staring hard at both Sherlock and at Mycroft, "You have a tendency to destroy what you want to preserve."

"Doctor-" Mycroft began, concerned.

"Don't," John said softly, holding up his hand. "Just don't. If my sister didn't make it..." He let his voice trail off and looked at the two of them. The look was a threatening one, the look of a man near the edge of losing control, and he walked off towards where the explosion had happened.

"That was foolish, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I _told_ you what would happen if you came."

His brother waved his hand, "Moriarty's expecting me to help. He just was seeing if John would listen or not." With that he walked off.

Mycroft stared after them for a few seconds. He had predicted before that John Watson could be the making of his brother... or the undoing of him. John Watson could make Sherlock a good man.

But he had never stopped to think of what could happen to John Watson. He wondered now if that should have been his concern now.

What would happen if John Watson was lost? With all that he had seen, what did it take to turn a good man into a lost one?

He wouldn't let that happen. Sherlock had finally opened up to someone. Mycroft would do anything to ensure nothing happened to hurt his brother. He had enough concerns trying to keep Sherlock safe due to his detective career. And he would do anything in his power to protect his brother and those he learned to care about.


	4. Chapter 4

The ambulance was a mess, but still solid, by and large. John heaved a sigh of relief as he checked over his sister. Unconscious, possible slight concussion, but still alive and breathing.

He looked at Sherlock. "_Stay. Here."_ It was said in a no-nonsense tone.

The other man yawned, "John, again, you don't have a chance -"

"Shut up!"John snapped. "For goodness' sake Sherlock, just shut up! Maybe for once, it's not about you, did you think of that?"

Sherlock just gave him a look before rolling his eyes dramatically, "John, the only way he even _knows_ about you is through me. Logically, if this is a game he is playing, he will be setting up rules much like he did with me. That means odds are high I will be brought in regardless. So -"

John turned, silently dismissing the other man, as an ambulance arrived. Mycroft smiled, "I'll arrange for her to be in a private hospital, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you."The doctor turned to leave before saying, "And keep your nose out of my business, Mycroft. I don't appreciate your actions."

"I don't have the slightest -"Mycroft began, a bit insulted at the fact that the man didn't even look at him as he walked away, in the opposite direction of everyone else.

Mycroft watched with no small amount of concern. Where was the doctor going? Sherlock had the same look of confusion. Mycroft shook his head, silently telling his brother to just meet the doctor at the obvious place of St. Bart's.

So imagine his surprise about twenty minutes later when he received a text stating that no one was there.

Where had John Watson gone? Taking another cab would have only made him a few minutes behind. Mycroft went to his assistant, who looked confused. "I... I lost him."

"You lost him? How?"

"He went to the nearest Tube station,"she answered. "I can't make it out but it's as if all of the cameras were pointing away from him. I can't find him."

Mycroft wondered if Moriarty had hacked into the cameras or if the doctor had just blended in well. Where was he? His cell phone was on but no messages had been sent or anything...

He had no idea that John Watson was currently sitting in a rather busy espresso bar by St. Paul's, having borrowed a cell phone after claiming his reception was horrible. Mike Stamford was with him, in the downstairs area of said espresso bar.

"You called, said it was important?"Mike asked, looking at the other man. "You all right John?"

He didn't _look_ all right. John looked stressed and more worried than Mike could remember having ever seen him before.

"Just... no, no I'm not all right,"John answered honestly. "Someone is messing with my head. Making me worry. You might be a target, since we're friends."

A flash of understanding in the other man's eyes, "Thank you for the warning. I'll try to not be alone."A flash of a grin, "And I won't trust any cabbies either."

John chuckled, unable to help it, "I had no idea how many people decided to read my blog but it's still surprising."He looked up, "You brought it?"

"Yes, the code books."Mike put a rather large book next to John. "Why didn't you just use your phone to look it up?"

"I don't really trust the phone,"John answered honestly. "Sherlock."

"Ah, say no more,"Mike said, chuckling. "He's intense sometimes. So what are the codes?"

John took out said untrustworthy phone and the the other man took a look at the quickly made video and photos. Soon he said, "You noticed it seems to repeat?"

"Ah, yeah, between the same what... I think it's like twenty numbers?"

"I know a few of them, but... I see why you needed the book. I brought a copy. Let's get cracking."

"Feels like old times,"John muttered, amused. "Just need our old study group."He managed somehow to smile, "Remember how Pierce always came in disheveled trying to make us think someone always had a go at him?"

Mike began to laugh and the two reminisced for a bit before both blinked, confused. "SE15 isn't a diagnosis code,"John said.

"I know,"Mike muttered. "It's always next to 874.9. Complicated open wound of neck..."He took out his phone and entered in SE15. "Hell. John, that's a post code."

John looked over the phone's little map area. Who did he know that lived near there? Who... he racked his brain before swearing softly and standing.

Clara. The one person who he had actually liked out of Harry's various dates and people before, who had been on a futile mission from the beginning.

Had he been the same way with Sherlock? Doomed from the start, that there was no way to change someone that stubborn and intelligent?

Couldn't spare the time to think of that now.

But how had Moriarty known about Clara? Well, probably research. It wasn't as if most people kept their lives private after all.

"Mike, please be careful. And thanks again."

"Anytime. But you should heed your own advice, I think. Be careful."Mike went to leave before pausing. "You sure Sherlock can't help?"

"He doesn't understand that I'm not willing to risk people in this little game mindset of his,"John murmured quietly. "To him it's just a game, just a bluff. I'm not willing to risk it. Sherlock is brilliant, yes, but he is also incredibly selfish. Just... I don't want to have to deal with him, not right now. I need to get going."

"Take care then."Mike Stamford watched John Watson leave courtesy of the Tube station. Mike noticed he had left some money behind for his share of their coffees and shook his head. Even in the midst of worrying, John didn't forget other people.

Said man was on the train, hoping that he was working within his time limit. He got off at the stop he knew was closest to Clara and was soon knocking at her front door.

Her red hair was a bit past her shoulders, she was freckled and had such a great sense of humor that to see her now, pale and afraid, in her robe over her pajamas, made John upset and worried. She must have been having a lie-in today and this happened.

"Hello John." She didn't seem angry at him, just worried.

"Are you all right?"John asked quietly.

"Bet you saw this coming,"Clara said quietly, opening her robe. John wanted to cry. He had been in the same situation before, covered in semtex. "What…would you like me…to make her say…next? Gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer-"

John said quietly, "I'd like for you to make her say, 'He's letting me go John, I'm safe, don't worry.'"He didn't take his eyes away from the sniper dot on her head.

But the angle... it was strange. He wouldn't say it was possible to recognize someone from the angle, but Sherlock was all about little details...

In the military, he had been taught how to rely on the unit, to know them better than he knew himself sometimes. That angle, that twist...

Nobody sees a good sharpshooter.

John had been taught to shoot, something he was good at. But most doctors weren't. He knew that twist, that angle, that shooting style. It was similar to his own, an odd mix of professional, survival, and comfort.

Training that had kept him sane and alive, just like he had done for his unit.

"And what... do I get in return?"Clara asked.

"What do you want?"John answered back.

"I told you, I just want to play a game. But it's funny, isn't it... we _distinctly _said for them to leave us be and yet your friend's on his way right now and so are others. People _just don't listen,_ do they? But then, why would they listen to boring old John Watson? They're so brilliant and you... you're just so _ordinary._"

John didn't say anything.

"Well, here's my game Johnny Boy. Who dies? Clara or Harry? Both are your sisters, dear to your heart. Pick one. Or lose both."

He shook his head, not knowing what to think. Clara's eyes had widened and it was obvious she didn't want to say the next bit, but she gritted her teeth and said, "Clara is a good worker, going somewhere with life. It's why you liked her, wasn't it? A good influence on a sister that's nothing but a drunk. It's logically a no-brainer, really. Go with the one that isn't a waste."

Her voice spoke the words of Moriarty, but Clara was shaking her head, unshed in them. John knew that she still cared about his sister.

His phone went off and he instinctively looked at the text message.

_Well, if the logic doesn't work, then save your sister. She's your only family left, isn't she? And she's slowly getting better, isn't she? You noticed it, obviously. Really hasn't drunk in weeks! She's trying hard to get her life together. How can you deny her that chance? _

It was obviously Moriarty.

John couldn't think. Choose? Choose between lives?

_Tick tock, Johnny Boy._ _You'll have more time if your friend actually listens. Actually, if he does, both of them will live.  
Good luck._

John didn't think, he grabbed his phone and called Sherlock.

"John, where are-"

"Sherlock, don't follow me, please,"John was begging. "Please, _please_ don't. Just stay there!"

"Never mind, I've got it,"Sherlock said, hanging up abruptly.

No, _no!_ John tried calling and texting but it was to no avail. Sherlock didn't reply and John tried to hope in vain he would listen.

The next thing he knew, Clara had shoved him, shoved him _hard, _making him almost hit the street and shut the door. John didn't understand what had happened until he heard the explosion inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The people arriving, shouting a distant dim sound...

A flash of curly black hair. Sherlock. The knowledge was in his head like a jagged piece of glass.

No. No, this wasn't Sherlock's fault. It was Moriarty. All Moriarty. Don't blame Sherlock. He was trying to help.

John knew that the emotions would hit him later, but he was a former soldier and he was a doctor. He had felt the sting and pain of loss before, but he had to keep moving. Because if he didn't keep moving, keep going other people could die, _he_ could die.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "Did you get another message?"

"No," John said quietly. "I wanted to see the body."

"Not necessary," Mycroft said, looking at the doctor. "Get some rest. Sherlock?"

Grumbling, obviously not liking it but only obeying because it involved John. "Come along."

"Harry," John said quietly.

"Taken care of," Mycroft stated calmly.

John began to walk a bit with Sherlock before he paused. Something wasn't right about this...

Moriarty hadn't warned victims before. And the explosion... John was right outside. He would have been caught up in it. It wouldn't have been an inside thing.

He hadn't heard Moriarty's voice during this.

He pulled away from Sherlock and ran by everyone into the house where he saw... Clara. A bit scratched but fine.

What was going on here?

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, someone grabbing John.

"By now even _he's_ probably deduced it," Sherlock grumbled. "Right?"

"A trick?" John said, turning to look at the two Holmes brothers. "This was only a goddamn _trick?"_

"A training exercise," Mycroft said. "We asked if your sister and her former wife could help. We needed to see your reaction-"

"I was a _soldier on active duty!" _John roared. "You know how I act under pressure! You could have just-!"

"But John, it's-" Sherlock began.

"You knew?" John snapped, whirling to face his supposed best friend. "You just let him do this? You _agreed?"_

"It was just an experiment-"

John felt numb.

_A training exercise. An experiment._

He didn't listen to anything else. He just turned and left. He would have done something he regretted if he stayed, he was sure of it.

"One thing I'm still concerned about, sir," Anthea spoke quietly. "The cameras. We didn't do that. They were arranged to watch him."

"I'm aware," Mycroft said simply, watching the retreating form of John Watson. "We'll be keeping an eye on him."

He knew that the doctor just needed some time to calm down before he realized that they had just been trying to assist him. He had to understand what he was up against, what he had gotten himself into. The only way for the doctor to truly understand that was to have, essentially, experienced it. But he had realized it was a training exercise far earlier than anyone had anticipated. Even Sherlock had stated it was going to take at bit longer. It was obvious that John Watson had surprised even him and that made Sherlock a bit proud of the doctor.

John walked through the London streets, not really wanting to return to Baker Street. He walked for hours, not really caring.

How could they have done that do him? It was easier to understand why his sister and Clara went with it, if they kept saying training. Mycroft probably made it worth their while financially as well.

And Harry would probably throw hers away in liquor.

The doctor sighed and looked around. He hadn't realized where he was, but he was near the London Eye. He just sat at a bench and looked around at the people walking by.

He was so _tired. _He tried to be a decent friend, a decent doctor, a good man... he really did. He didn't mind the crime scenes, the running all over London with (or after!) Sherlock, he liked hearing the other man's deductions. His life had seemed... better, no tremors, no limp, none of it.

And yet... it was coming to a head. The insults, the uncaring attitude, the presumption of control... and then there was Mycroft. He would always just show up and John, not wanting to insult Sherlock's brother, had always gone with him without much fuss.

It was a circle that didn't end.

They would keep this up, keep pushing him until he had nothing left to give. Keep toying with him...

The thought made John angrier. He was _human,_ damn it, not some toy! Not some experiment!

But what could he do to show them? To show two brilliant men that he was not someone to toy with, to jerk around?

He couldn't do it alone. He needed an ally, someone he could trust. But who? Who... the two had their connections everywhere. Everyone John had thought he could trust here... could he trust them anymore? Not his sister, obviously... and everyone else, he knew through Sherlock.

Who to trust?

"Seems as if you're having trust issues again. Have to admit, for future reference I would _never_ give that many hints."

Now _this_ was the voice that had haunted John for a while, and the person sat next to him, adjusting his cap before turning to face John.

"What do you want?" John snapped.

"I told you before, I _am_ a consultant," Jim Moriarty said, smirking.

John said nothing, just looking away.

He wanted to say no and he opened his mouth to do just that... but that wasn't what left his mouth, much to his own astonishment. Instead, what he heard himself saying was...

"How?"


	6. Chapter 6

"How am I a consultant?" A scoff and mocking smirk.

John gave the criminal a _look_. "You know what I meant. How would you go about it?"

"Weeeeeell," Moriarty said, grinning now, "They underestimate you a lot. But _I_ know some things that _they_ don't!"

A simple tilt of the head was the only indication John gave to continue.

"Like those cameras," the criminal continued, outright giggling now. "You know, they think _I_ did that. But _we _know better, don't we?"

John said nothing, just looking down instead.

"The fact they couldn't trace your phone for a bit even though you never turned it off is a tell as well. But they can't imagine the good _doctor_ being able to outwit them. Heaven forbid!"

"Are you going to stand here talking or what?"

"We're _sitting_ here talking, Johnny Boy. You and me." Silence for a bit and the criminal continued, "It's been a long time since that's happened, hasn't it?"

"You had me wrapped in a bomb. I don't think it was that long ago." John spoke quietly, still not looking up.

Jim leaned closer to him, ensuring nobody would hear by how close they were and said simply, "I said talking, not threatening or playing a game."

"People's lives aren't a game, Jim."

"You'd know." He softly chuckled, "My first client. What was the job, Johnny? Do you even remember that day or do you just pretend it never happened?"

John clenched his fists, hating his past and the man next to him.

Hating the fact that his life hadn't improved until the day they had met.

"Freshwater West," John said quietly. "Harry was with friends surfing and I was trying to think of how to get us away from our folks. And you were there, analyzing a bit of quicksand. And the first time you saw me, you opened your mouth and said-"

"That you looked as if you wanted to murder someone." A soft chuckle, "And if so, would you like a hand?"

"And I said yes," John said quietly. "You were older than me, about Harry's age, but you didn't act like those idiots. You _listened_ when I laid out my plan about poison and told me how it would fail. But a drunk falling, that wouldn't be odd."

"And it was just so sad he fell the wrong way down the steps and nobody was home to help him," Jim said softly, eyes glittering. "And the price for my help was for you to return the favor. A burglary gone wrong while I was out and who could question our alibis with an entire group of surfers saying we were on the beach?"

John sighed, a long-suffering tired one, "My sister blamed herself for it. She never knew the truth, but felt guilty we weren't home to help him. Began to drink and well, still is to this day." The doctor looked at Jim now, "You have my attention. I'll ask again: how would you go about it?"

A hand across the brim of the hat, "What did they do to you? How did they make you _feel_?"

"You've got to be joking. I... I don't know." John paused thoughtfully, "Panic. I was panicking."

"You weren't in on it," Jim answered simply, nodding, "and so you panicked. Sheer worry and reaction. Sherlock is in denial, of course, about those reactions regarding himself and I have no doubt his brother would be as well. One thing... after another..."

"Make them panic? But how?"

"They took what you held dear. Do the same."

"What, take Sherlock's violin? Take his experiments?"

A soft laugh, "Johnny, I know better. Do you know what I call them?"

"I'm well aware. What you told that woman, how to get under their skin and mess with them, it was horrible. Yes, I know what your little nicknames for them are."

"Yet she never told yours."

"Who needs to know it? Probably 'Pet-'"

Laughter, real laughter now, causing John to stare at the other man. What was so funny?

"You keep lumping me with those idiots. _I know you_." More amused chuckling, "I saw your smirk as the old man died-"

"_Shut up!"_

"-The fact that doctors know people well enough to heal or take apart-" The criminal dodged the punch aimed at him, "_and_ the fact that you weren't just a doctor, you were a soldier. You can heal or kill, best of both worlds."

"This isn't worth it," John said, standing and turning to leave.

"The Wild Card."

John stopped, curiosity getting the better of him.

"If played right, strongest card in the deck... or the weakest." Jim smiled, "I know what you're capable of doing to those that hurt you and those you care about. If they don't care about _your _reaction to things, what makes you really think they'll show any ounce of compassion for those you care for?"

John didn't move, but he was listening and Jim knew it.

"You've been kidnapped... as I well know," Jim said, grinning and earning a glare from John. "You've been shot at, your old girlfriend threatened, your newer ones insulted... you tolerate a lot, Johnny. How much more before you say enough? How much more before it's too late? You won't get what you want from talking, it's too dull and boring. Might work on the rest of the world, but this time? You've got to go backwards to move forward. And here I am, just like before."

Was it possible to hate someone for telling the truth? Yes, John wanted them to stop taking him for granted, to stop being oh so superior. And yes, both of them probably _would_ tune him out.

Talking wouldn't work with them.

But...

"You said make them panic," John said softly. "But you weren't talking about his things. What then?"

"You." Jim stood with a sly grin. "You're his secret weapon and they don't even realize it. They _won't_ until you're gone."

"I've been gone before."

"Yes, but that was when you were being an idiot like them." There was an insane smile on Jim's face, one that made John rather uneasy. "They used _my_ name in a horribly fake mission that really just shouldn't have been thought of. It was pathetic. _And_ they showed they have no respect for your intellect or abilities. Why are you so worried? Now come on, hurry up before the Iceman finds you. Tick tock."

Jim stood and walked off.

It took John all of three seconds before he decided to follow, "I have an idea as to how to let them know you have me..."

"Nothing wrong with a simple video feed," Jim said back.

"Too easy to fake," John retorted.

"What then?"

The doctor smiled, one that hadn't been seen on his face in a long time, a slow predatory grin, as the two walked side by side into the black car waiting for them before telling his plan.


	7. Chapter 7

It was midday and Sherlock Holmes was _bored._

Bored, bored, bored!

He looked outside the window. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. UGH.

This was dull.

"John, _tea_," Sherlock said before looking around. Oh, his flatmate must still be irritated. Emotions. Dull. This was why Sherlock didn't bother caring. It made people act even more stupid than usual. John was his friend, but sometimes it was very obvious that he was part of the masses. He must have deleted the fact that John had not come home last night.

"_Sherlock!_" Mrs. Hudson's scream broke the detective from his thoughts and he ran down the stairs in his blue robe.

It was obvious what made her scream.

_Package, no stamps, printed label, taped on. Standard ink and paper. Package is leaking. Thick. Cardboard failing. Presumably an organ of some sort due to the coloring and horrific reaction._

These thoughts raced through the detective's head in a matter of very brief seconds and he walked to see what was in the package that had his name typed on the label.

A hand...

That hand. He knew that hand.

_John._

Sherlock grabbed the box, staring at the dismembered hand.

_John didn't return last night. Left in the evening. He was angry._

John... it was John's hand... Sherlock would know it anywhere. But he did see everything, as he always did, and so he quite easily found the tiny scrap of paper with a note.

_**That exercise was so full of errors that I just had to fix them. So let's play!**_

_**-J**_

Moriarty.

_Angry. John has been irritated and left. But always came back. What if he couldn't? Taken again, just like with the Black Lotus. _

John. John was hurt. A doctor without a hand. Because of them.

His only friend was in pain because of Sherlock. Doctor John Watson had been captured... No. No! That would not help! But the old conversation haunted him now, the words a taunting echo.

"_Will caring about them help save them?"_

"_Nope!"_

"_Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."_

He cared. He cared about his blogger, his flatmate, his doctor, his _friend._ Sherlock took the package upstairs to analyze it more. He was loathe to ask for help, but Mycroft probably knew the last place John had been. And Sherlock was sure that his brother had seen the package arrive. He would probably be here shortly.

But there was nothing. Meaning the surveillance outside had to see who had dropped off the package. If not them, then someone in Sherlock's network definitely had.

He ran outside. He had a friend to save and a mystery to solve.

Things were normal.

So then why did he feel so... odd? So strange? It was an odd sensation in his chest...

Sick?

No... no, this wasn't any normal sickness...

But as he ran, Sherlock began to realize what it was.

Worry.

He was scared.

Scared that he might lose his only friend. And that... was not normal. Trying to delete it only made it worse, and Sherlock knew that he would have to deal with it as he hunted down someone who could have seen who had dropped off the package. It couldn't have been too long ago... Sherlock was sure of it. The person might still be around somewhere.

And so he ran.


	8. Chapter 8

As Sherlock Holmes ran through the streets, one Mycroft Holmes and his rather lovely assistant were combing through video footage.

Mycroft shook his head, looking very irritated, "We have to find him. I don't want to imagine what would happen with his friend taken away."

"He's been clean for years, sir." Anthea glanced at the man.

"Addictive personality." Mycroft shook his head, "How can there be nothing? Nothing at all. If I didn't have cameras in the flat, if Sherlock had gotten rid of them as he always did, there would be no record of any package-" Mycroft had stopped speaking.

Anthea didn't have to ask why.

The computer screen that her boss had been flipping through had just changed. The screen was blank, completely and utterly a black screen...

And then the words began to appear...

_Say say little enemy  
__Come out and fight with me  
__Bring your soldier's gun  
__We'll have so much fun  
__I'll shoot your eye out  
__And let you bleed to death  
__And we'll be jolly enemies  
__Oh, one, two, three, four  
__A doctor's at death's door  
__Five, six, seven, eight  
__Detective has a grisly fate  
__Nine, ten  
__Try to leave your office before it's a fiery den!_

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. It was obviously a play of nursery rhymes. All too soon the words were gone, his normal screen back.

But something else took its place. A scent...

_Fiery den_. Both he and Anthea went running, his assistant sending a message to evacuate the building.

It felt like something out of a movie. When Mycroft got out, part of the building exploded.

There was no way, no way, _no way_ that Moriarty could have gotten past their security. It was _impossible!_ Mycroft knew the people here, knew them all!

But there was no other way. This had to be an inside job. Someone able to get all the way to his office without suspicion. Someone who knew his importance...

Someone who knew technology well enough to hack it...

Someone who was trusted.

Mycroft didn't know when his eyes had shifted to his assistant, who was very busy on her phone even now, but she did fit all the criteria. She knew the headquarters, could get in and could definitely hack most computers with ease.

The man thought for a few seconds before turning and summoning a car. He had to protect Sherlock from this supposed grisly fate. It would not be difficult to track his brother; he would be looking for whomever sent the package. And they could not be too far from 221 Baker Street.

The black sedan drove through the streets past Speedy's, Mycroft looking for Sherlock.

A man sat in Speedy's, a sandwich and newspaper in front of him as he glanced at the passing car. He had dark dark hair and dark brown eyes to match, though they were behind his glasses. He seemed to be a simple businessman, like many of the others in the cafe.

He glanced at his watch before standing up and walking to 221 Baker Street. He placed a small wrapped object into the mail slot, his hand with a rather large plaster on it and walked for a bit, passing a few streets until a taxi pulled up next to him.

He entered and spoke, looking out the window. "About time, Jim. The disguise wasn't perfect enough to let me remain here too long."

"I only had a few hours to work with," Jim Moriarty protested from the front seat. "And they weren't looking for _you_, they're keeping an eye out for people that would resemble _me. _Anyway, where to now?"

"Any suggestions?"

"This is, as they say, your game," Jim answered, glaring at the driver of another car that had just cut him off. "Rude..." Jim took out his phone and sent a quick text.

"Do I even want to know?"

"Just learning a bit more about the driver in front. With recklessness like that on the roads, I just wonder what else they've done. Might teach them a bit about having proper manners as well. So where to?"

John thought for a few moments before a smile began to spread. "St. Bart's."

The criminal mastermind just nodded.

"Also, might want to get some associates there."

Jim glanced at the man in the back seat. It was obvious he was enjoying himself. And why shouldn't he be? Jim knew that he was enjoying this little game immensely as well.

And perhaps, if John Watson enjoyed this enough... if Jim wasn't so stupid this time and didn't drive him away...

Then perhaps this time he would stay.

But Jim was not stupid. John had the ability to forgive and he was very loyal. Hadn't he not said anything about knowing Jim despite the fact that murders were going on during his game with Sherlock?

He knew that John would probably forgive the brothers Holmes, when his anger receded. Yes, that was a when, not an if; he knew John, after all. After John had made them see what they had made him go through...

Jim's hands tightened on the steering wheel. _He_ could see the brilliant phyisican, the amazing soldier, knew the man's past and yet _Sherlock_ had his loyalty?

Eliminating Sherlock wasn't a problem. One sniper shot and the man would be gone. No, the problem was Sherlock's big brother. He had just as many resources as Jim, and Mycroft Holmes would come crashing down on Jim. And though taking out the Iceman wouldn't be _impossible_... Jim knew he would be just as weakened from what would essentially be a civil war. His network would be very fragile, enough for competition to get ideas and act on them.

Jim was also sure that was the main reason that Big Brother wasn't putting more resources into finding him now. He wanted to wait for Jim to make the first move, he wanted to counterattack, to make Jim use his resources first.

Although right now, Jim had an asset that neither of the two did. Did John's loyalty extend to Mycroft Holmes? No, most likely not from the fact that he had actually advocated a violent tactic on the man quickly.

And _that_... would be useful. John would not attack Sherlock, would not harm the detective, but it wasn't that hard to make the man do those things to himself. But John _would_ go after Mycroft Holmes.

And that was all Jim would need. Plans beginning to form in his mind, the consulting criminal continued to drive to St. Bart's.


	9. Chapter 9

A frustrated consulting detective was not someone anyone really wanted to be around. He was bad enough when he _wasn't_ in one of his moods. But now with his best friend missing and the deliverer of a package disappearing into thin air, Sherlock Holmes was very frustrated indeed.

He entered to go into his flat when he stopped, looking at a small thing . He picked it up. Wrapped in tissue paper, smeared with red...

No.

Smeared with blood. Sherlock opened the paper and felt oddly detached for a few brief seconds before analyzing.

_John's phone. Blood. Angle of the blood splatters indicates a fair amount. Presumably from hand._

He went upstairs to 221B and opened his friend's phone. One text message was waiting.

_**Don't worry. It's just an experiment. -J**_

Fury and hatred flooded through Sherlock, but who the emotions, rarely felt by the sociopath, were directed at, he wasn't even sure. All Moriarty was doing... was saying what he had said to John.

The last thing he had said to his friend, his only friend, was that he was overreacting from an experiment. An experiment designed to test John, designed to show what Moriarty could do. Sherlock hated the colliding thoughts and emotions, but was this near how John had felt? His sister and her former partner had been the targets they had picked, could John have felt this worried for them?

"Sherlock," a voice said calmly, making the detective turn with a look of distaste.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

The answer was obvious. _Ashes, bits of them. Slight scent of smoke._

Numbness.

John.

Mycroft. His brother could have died.

"You are not the only target," the man answered, knowing that Sherlock had deduced what happened.

"Mummy?"

"Office."

"Controlled explosions."

_Like with John. And Moriarty was a bomber._

_Damn him._

"How did they get in?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and the younger brother was almost scared for a moment. His brother, his older brother, unshakable and brilliant, looked... lost.

It was so faint, the look, and very brief, but Sherlock swallowed hard, nervous now for the first time. Mycroft had no idea how Moriarty had gotten into his office and that, as John would have said, was _a bit not good._

Sherlock took the bloodied box and phone. "Let's go to Bart's."

Mycroft's phone buzzed as his brother spoke and he reached into his suit jacket's pocket and read it with a raised eyebrow. He looked at Sherlock. "There's been a robbery."

"... A robbery."

"At Bart's. All laboratory equipment somehow just... missing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Mycroft looked out the window. It was obvious to them. Remove Sherlock's usual means of analyzing.

"Moriarty doesn't seem like the kind to do this," Mycroft said aloud.

"Did you finally arrange for him to get some of your attention?" Sherlock inquired.

His brother scowled slightly before saying, "He certainly has it now."

The doctor had been good for his brother. Less than a full day gone and Sherlock was showing signs of stress already. Mycroft remembered all too clearly how his brother's youth had been spent... the dangers of it even now. John Watson had no idea how many danger nights there had been before his arrival. Months without one? A record.

"Have you eaten?"

"I don't eat while working. You know that. Perhaps you should try it." It was an attempt to get some semblance of normality, Mycroft knew, and so he didn't get irritated as he normally did.

A knock on the door and soon it opened, revealing a disheveled young man, obviously a member of Sherlock's homeless network.

"I-I heard y-yous was lookin' for infermation 'bout a p-package."

"Yes," Sherlock said, piercing the visitor with a look.

"I-I saw a bloke," the young man said. "Jus' looked like everyone else, shirt 'n tie. Glasses. He put somethin' in the mail slot 'n walked off."

"How did he look?" Sherlock demanded.

"I jus' said!" the young man said, thinking furiously. "Jus'... jus' a normal bloke."

Sherlock growled in frustration, "So we have a man in a shirt and tie with glasses. _What else?"_

"I dunno!"

"At least we have _something,"_ Mycroft muttered. "Thank you."

The homeless young man ran off and both brothers turned to stare as the bloodied phone in Sherlock's hand rang.

_Harry_ was displayed on the screen.

Mycroft felt a slight twinge of guilt. No one had told her that her only family was missing.

"Hello?" Sherlock inquired.

"Johnny, you got me the wrong sandwich. I wanted turkey _and _ham, not turkey ham," the woman complained.

"... Harriet, this is Sherlock," the detective spoke quickly, running out the door, his older brother behind him. "You saw John?"

"Huh? Sherlock? Put Johnny on, s'important. He got me the wrong sandwich."

"You saw your brother?" This was said as they got into Mycroft's car, Sherlock in the front seat for once and Mycroft driving.

It was sadly obvious right now, the two brothers were taking the 'trust no one' approach. Mycroft's office and Sherlock's preferred research place both targeted? People with access to their places were helping Moriarty and they didn't know who.

"Yeah..."

"We'll be right there."

Mycroft was a fast driver, more so when he could actually drive through red lights courtesy of a police escort he had made while his brother spoke on the phone. "Don't get your hopes up," he said to Sherlock. "She's on pain medication. Not the most reliable."

"It's _something,_" he snapped. "How did they get into Bart's?" This was asked with a forlorn look on his face.

Mycroft just shook his head. How indeed.

But of all the things for Harry to see, why her brother? Why not someone like her ex-wife that she clearly still cared for?

_John had called her during the test._ _The first person he had called when Sherlock wasn't available had been his sister. He didn't turn to anyone else willingly except for his sister and Mike Stamford._

_Think._

They had reached the hospital.

When he had been worried, John Watson had wanted his sister safe. Was going to use her flat, hadn't he said that? If Moriarity had been monitoring the test, he might have remembered that.

Mycroft looked around the hospital as they walked to Harry Watson's room. He knew every place was being watched. He knew the nurses and doctors were keeping a good eye on the woman. He went to the desk on her floor. "Have any visitors been to see Ms. Watson?" He inquired.

"No, sir," a nurse said.

Sherlock made a face and went into her room.

Mycroft knew his brother noticed it at the same time.

There was a sandwich on a tray. Bought, not part of the meals given by the hospital.

Someone _had_ been to visit.

But how did they get in? Mycroft made a few calls and was looking over his phone as Sherlock talked to Harry. There was _nothing,_ no record of anyone visiting this floor at all. Not from the front desk, not from any of the footage...

As he looked over photos and videos, he had no idea that he was being watched as well.

Jim Moriarty chuckled as he waited in the front, looking at his cell phone. "Like chickens with their heads cut off."

"Do you just like taxi cabs?" John asked, peeling off the surgical mask as he entered the taxi. "I mean really, what is it with geniuses and taxis?"

"They blend in," Jim said, shrugging as he started the car and drove. "I don't believe you risked everything to visit _Harry._" He wrinkled his nose.

"You can tell you don't have siblings," John said, stretching.

Jim pouted, "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

The doctor in the back seat said nothing, looking out the window, perhaps lost in thought. Jim gave him those few minutes before asking, "Anything else?"

"Information is what they thrive on," John answered. "I figured just doing nothing for a few days will have more of a panic than being active."

Jim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"... Unless I'm imposing," John said softly. "Then I'll stay somewhere else."

"I wouldn't have offered my services if you were imposing. I was just wondering if you would be willing to lend me a hand with some business of mine."

"I'm not a thug," John said quietly.

Jim glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, "I never said you were. Though I was hoping to use your skill with a pistol. I think you'd understand. A wife. She can't get a divorce from her husband without losing her children. He's a police officer, nobody listens to her. Horrible fellow. Doesn't just hurt her though. Hurts their oldest son and makes the other one watch."

There it was. The same look of disgust Jim had remembered at such crimes that society seemed to overlook.

"And it'd be a shame if he was accidentally killed while on duty, would it?" John said softly.

"Oh yes," Jim answered quietly. He handed an envelope to the back seat.

John knew he should say no, should refuse. His hand took the envelope and he felt sick as he saw the bruised and bloody child, the woman even worse...

He had to refuse this, he had to. He had no right to play judge, jury and executioner. He should give it back and jump out the cab right now...

But how could he when he knew he could make a positive difference to three people? How could he claim to not want to kill someone when his hands were already coated in blood anyway.

Jim knew him. He knew to pick criminals that John wouldn't mind killing. A killer with a conscience. And Jim was keeping that in mind.

_Unlike last time..._

John pushed the thought away. He had left that life. He was _good_, damn it. He was only teaching Sherlock and Mycroft a lesson. He was _not a bad person._

But... how could he say that after seeing those photos? After reading that information? He had the ability to help someone and he was saying no because of his morals even though he had killed on the battlefield and to save Sherlock's life?

He stared out the window for a few long minutes before saying softly, not looking away from the outside view, "What time does he work and what street?"

In the driver's seat, Jim just smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

Two weeks had passed with nothing. No leads. No information. No taunts.

_Nothing._

Mycroft Holmes felt exhausted as he looked at his brother. Sherlock was sleeping due to the fact that Mycroft had injected him with a sedative.

A very powerful one.

He had an IV in him now too. He was skin and bones and just a mess. It was almost as bad, if not worse, than when he had been on drugs. Mycroft hated it.

And this time, he couldn't exactly fault his brother.

Because Mycroft knew first hand, one did anything for those they loved. Sherlock would throw himself into death's door gladly for precious few people, but his brother knew who those few people were, though Sherlock would deny it.

And one of those few people was Doctor John Watson.

Still missing. Still gone. Still with Moriarty.

Now that the criminal finally had gotten a way to get Mycroft's attention, it seemed the man didn't want to be bother.

Frustrating.

"Sir?" Anthea entered the room, looking at the 'sleeping' Sherlock before turning her attention to her boss. "We... I'll let you look at it." She held up a file and handed it to him.

"Thank you."

"Would you like anything to eat?"

He was sure he didn't look much better than Sherlock, only cleaner, but he shook his head. He wasn't very hungry. "No. Thank you."

Anthea nodded, looking worried before her professional mask slipped back on and she left.

The man that many called "The British Government" was looking intently at the information he had just received. It was such a shot in the dark... but they had nothing. Nothing else to go on at all and Sherlock was not doing well. And yet Mycroft couldn't trust anyone else except his brother.

But...

_Wait._

There was a way. He looked at the information once more, about someone matching the description Sherlock had given him of Moriarty so long ago using a cleaning service, and back at Sherlock.

For his brother. This was all for his brother. And damn it all, Mycroft just hoped no one else found out. Sighing, the man stood and left the room, leaving the file. He had preparations to worry about. And though this could be a little humiliating, if it helped find John Watson, then it was worth it.

In another area of the city, the one that so many were hunting for, John Watson, was the only one in a rather small house. Jim was out on business, his cronies gone as well. Even in a house alone, John did not look like the normal doctor so many knew and expected, having graying dark hair to help with a disguise along with contacts and glasses, not to mention the style of dressing wasn't his usual comfortable style.

He had been told to expect a maid from an organization the group owned. John didn't really understand why they couldn't clean up after themselves, like he did, but he wasn't going to argue.

_Once upon a time, there was a boy with sandy hair and a teenager with dark hair who met on a beach. They became friends because their families would hurt them all the time and they just wanted it to stop. So they put their parents into early graves. But that wasn't the end, oh no, because who could take care of them now? So the teenager had an idea, to solve problems for people. And the boy thought it was fine and it worked for a long time, paying bills and tuition that way. _

John shook his head, sighing. He was spending too much time with Jim, it was obvious. He was even thinking odd like him. But at least he could clear his mind. He walked to a table and remembered one of the first things he had learned as a young man. Prepare your work area. He did so, cleaning it and took out his gun.

Engage your safeties. The gun was unloaded.

Field strip the gun. John prepared to do so when knocking interrupted the calming ritual of weapon cleaning. Ah. The maid. He walked to the door and blinked a few times.

An... well, she was... er... She wasn't John's type of woman, with a pixie cut and bleached blond hair (yet her eyebrows were brown, why...?) stood there, holding a bag of cleaning supplies. She wore a black and white sweater with pink tights and an cleaning apron over it all. But this woman looked oddly... familiar. John didn't know why.

Remembering Jim's various lectures and acting lessons, John chose to imitate the older man, the criminal who was assisting him, and asked in a voice unlike his own, "Hello. You must be the maid?"

"Yes," the woman said, beaming at John and making him feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Right then, come on." John indicated the first room, which was the one they were in. "Natural habitat of idiots that can't clean. Have at it. Hope you don't mind me here."

"Oh, it's _fine,_" the woman said, fluttering her eyes at him and making John acutely uncomfortable. "I'm Iris."

"Right then." John returned to his work area, shutting his eyes. Field strip the gun. Done. Clean the bore of the barrel. He attached a bore brush to the cleaning rod and was applying solvent to the brush.

"So who are you?" The woman, Iris, asked, as she cleaned.

John looked over. "What?" It was a snarl of irritation.

And he stopped, looking at the woman from the side. She was busy folding clothes but he couldn't help it. He knew that side profile, recognized it instantly.

_Mycroft?_

What the... why was Mycroft pretending to be a maid? Why was he here! Where was Sherlock? Was he somewhere around?

John couldn't help it. His cell phone was in his hand and he began to take a video of Mycroft freaking Holmes dressed as Iris the Maid, cleaning. Now he was trying desperately not to laugh.

"Sorry," Iris/Mycroft said, with a giggle. "Just wondering, don't usually have people here to talk to."

"I bet," John said, keeping his amusement as hidden as possible. "I'm just the doctor."

"The doctor?"

"No TARDIS jokes please," John said tiredly. "How long have you worked as a maid?"

"Oh, ages," came the reply with a wave of the hand and more cleaning. "And you? How long have you worked here?"

"I've been around, just here for a bit," John answered. "Any brothers or sisters?"

The door opened before he received his answer, and he quickly turned off the phone recording, seeing a few of Jim's people. "Doc," one said. "The boss dunnae know it, we gotta man down."

John nodded and quickly finished cleaning his gun before standing up. "What happened?"

"Who's the bird?" One man leered over the maid, who managed to press against the wall.

"The maid."

A few more of them were looking over now, some raising eyebrows and others... well, looking interested. John felt a bit queasy at the thought of that.

He could see it flash on Mycroft's face as well, not even a second, but it was enough. The few men surrounding the British Government turned maid all jumped when a shot rang out.

"That was a blank," John said calmly. "You think I'd let anyone here while I'm on duty?" He walked over and gave everyone a look. "Lay off."

"Sorry Doc," the looks were all nervous ones.

"Right. Let's go." He left without looking at Mycroft, but he could feel the eyes burning a hole through his back.

Why the heck had Mycroft picked to go as a _maid?_ Why didn't he get one of his cronies to spy?

And why was it _Mycroft_ that was looking for him and not Sherlock?

_Unless he deleted the mental file on John H. Watson already..._ John knew that wasn't true. He had been keeping tabs on Sherlock. The detective blamed himself. He had even dialed that old number that 'Jim from IT' had given him. Sherlock's health had deteriorated so fast that John had forced himself to not go to his friend's side. Why didn't anyone try to help him? Lecturing him didn't do anything, sneak food into him!

At the same time, John didn't know what to do. He knew first-hand that violent crime had gone down a bit in two weeks.

Conscience would come later; right now, John had someone's life to save. And all too soon, he was practically elbow deep in someone's intestines, wondering how these idiots managed to survive without a proper doctor for so long.

In the house, a certain maid was still cleaning but wondering. _The doctor. _

But that man hadn't looked or acted like John Watson, hadn't sounded like him and had had both hands. But a doctor... who could handle a gun with a soldier's ease...

No. It couldn't be.

Could it?

The door opened and a few other different people entered, sparing the cleaning person a glance before someone with a rifle slung over his shoulder spoke. "Sir, with all due respect, he's an asset we don't want them to have."

"And?" The man had a similar accent to the one that the doctor who had just left had. "Do you have a way to get rid of that imbecile without making it look like I was involved, Sebastian? Because I'm all ears. I think his point's been made and he knows it. He'll be leaving soon."

The man, Sebastian, laughed, "Are you serious? He can't just leave-"

The man, obviously the one in charge... obviously _this_ was James Moriarty, the mastermind of crime... looked at him with an amused look. "He'll do what he thinks is right and believe me, you don't want to get in his way." He strode past, dropping a blood-soaked bag onto the newly-cleaned floor. "He knows people. Oh, I can observe and guess, but he's so much more dangerous than that. He knows his enemies. The problem with that is he thinks like them, understands them. He has very high morals."

The dubious look was really the only answer that could be given.

Moriarty looked sad for a brief moment, "He's taken down entire gangs with just my assistance when he was a boy. Don't underestimate him. He left... the last time he worked for me, I had him take down a place with bombs. I told him that it was only the target inside, that the family was away." The criminal mastermind looked around. "I lied. I wanted to make a statement. I wanted to make a point. They died. When he realized what had happened, when he realized I had known... that was the last I saw of him until my little game." Moriarty turned and left, saying no more.

Sebastian looked around at the others.

"We can't lose the doc, Colonel," one of the men said, shaking his head. "You've seen how things have changed. He doesn't kill everyone for a mistake anymore. He doesn't freak out as much, lets us train more."

"And we have a medic," Sebastian muttered. "I know. We can't lose him. And we won't. Get rid of the head." He indicated the bloody bag.

"Yes sir."

"And... the doc?"

"Find that damned detective and plant one in his forehead. Whoever does it first gets a few rounds on me." Sebastian looked around and the men laughed. "Don't tell the boss and _do not tell the doc._"

"And that bloke's brother?"

Sebastian drummed his fingers, "Let the doc handle him. Between him and the boss, they'll manage. Move out. Find that detective ASAP."

The men moved out, ignoring the person cleaning.

Which had been the plan.

* * *

**_A/N: If you're curious, the lovely disguise for Mr. Holmes came from another part Mark Gatiss has played. I happen to be a fan of the show "The League of Gentlemen." The show is completely insane, which ought to say something about me, I'm sure. _**

**_Well, enough from me. Thank you all for reading. Let me know what you think and I'll be updating whenever I can catch a break. Life is hectic, but reviews do make me feel better ;)_**

**_And so in the words of our favorite detective: "Laterz!"_**


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft Holmes was sitting alone, thinking. How did all of this _happen_? How didn't he see it? How would he tell Sherlock? He looked at his still sleeping brother. How?

"Sir, we tried-" Anthea said, as Gregory Lestrade pushed by her.

The Detective Inspector looked _furious._ Mycroft had never seen the man look that angry before. He had known the man for years and he knew that Lestrade had the patience of saints. He dealt with people all day long, had seen Sherlock at his best, worst and most infuriating. He had dealt with Mycroft's overprotectiveness, had dealt with his family issues... he did all of this and yet still managed to keep himself calm and in control, still managed to keep his head and have the respect of not only his team and Scotland Yard, but of both Mycroft and Sherlock as well.

For him to look this _angry?_ Mycroft didn't know what to think, and that... was pretty unheard of.

"It's fine," Mycroft said to Anthea, who quickly left.

Sherlock was stirring. "Huh...?" He looked at Mycroft and glowered. "You drugged me."

"Right. You're up." Lestrade whirled. "Let's go."

"What?" Mycroft and Sherlock said it simultaneously then shared glares at the other.

The DI turned on his heel, "I'm not repeating myself."

Sherlock made a face but stood. Mycroft was curious himself, and he followed the man outside to a car, where Lestrade got into the passenger seat. The two brothers got into the back and the car started. Mycroft looked at the driver and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

It was a worker for Moriarty, the one who had run in, who had gone towards him in disguise.

The driver didn't answer until the car turned into an alley. "I've got ten minutes."

Sherlock stared at the driver in complete shock, "_Sally?_"

"Think you're the only ones that know disguises?" The woman turned and looked at Mycroft. "Iris? Really? Do I even want to know?"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who was looking out the window and not meeting anyone's face.

Lestrade spoke quietly, "John told me ages ago about what happened at the pool. That Moriarty was obsessed with Sherlock. Said he knew how to get into the man's head before more damage could be done. Insisted that we had to be involved. Told us Moriarty had leverage over him."

"Leverage? Over John?" Sherlock's eyes flashed. "Why didn't he tell me?"

Sally looked at Sherlock through the rearview mirror, "He didn't want you to get suspicious, didn't want you to think he was a plant. He cares about you. Kept an eye on you all this time and had fits. We had things planned for ages, but didn't know how to do it, didn't know how to give the doc that excuse to talk to his old associate."

"We knew it wasn't the real Moriarty's work as soon as we were on the scene," Lestrade said, earning a surprised look from both brothers. "Kevin-Anderson to you- memorized the handwriting from the Great Game. Knew instantly it wasn't Moriarty. It was why we called John. Nobody else has the funds or mindset to make a game besides Moriarty... and you." It was said while looking at Mycroft.

"John sends me on errands. He's the one covering for me. Needed some supplies." Sally-it was so hard to think of the thug up front as the sergeant that always hassled Sherlock at crime scenes. "He almost panicked when he realized you were there. You jumping in might ruin all of this. So putting it plainly. Piss off."

"Sally, stop it. I know undercover is hard, but it's just a role," Lestrade said.

She punched the wheel, irritated. "This _sucks,_ alright? Do you know what they _do?_"

"Thanks to your reports, yes."

"Leverage." Sherlock said it quietly. "What does Moriarty know about John?"

"John was the first guy to work with him," Sally said it quietly. "Moriarty can take John down with him. We were going to make sure that doesn't happen. We were going to take that bastard down before he could act first til this one jumped in." It was said with a glare at Mycroft.

"We needed your reactions to be real," Lestrade said quietly at Sherlock's shocked and betrayed face. "You would have wanted in. We knew it. But we couldn't risk Sally and John. He took a risk, stepping in when you showed up. He doesn't know if Moriarty knows your looks. He didn't out you because if Moriarty has you, well..." The DI shrugged.

"You used that test to your advantage," Mycroft said quietly. "How did Doctor Watson tell you?"

"We had it in motion for ages," Lestrade answered. "We just needed something. You gave it to us earlier than we had hoped. We were going to try to fake one ourselves but there was no telling how Sherlock would react. When John went to the Tube and called his friend from Bart's, he sent Kevin a text about the scene. The cameras and everything were off him then. So we went into motion."

_How hadn't they seen it?_ Mycroft had the answer now.

There wasn't anything to see. John Watson was on Sherlock's side. He always had been. Willing to throw himself into a life he hated, all for Sherlock.

A thread of envy went through Mycroft at that realization. Where did they make men like John Watson, to do so much for someone that wasn't blood, who cared so much?

_Caring is not an advantage. _He had said it to Sherlock once, hadn't he? It wasn't, it never had been, except...

Except when it was, apparently. Caring allowed the doctor to do all of this, allowed him to do so much more while other people sat and waited for someone else.

Sherlock was staring at nothing, just looking at the back of the front seat, obviously lost in thought. He had been planning ahead too. He had known Moriarty was after him and he was planning so far ahead... he had never thought John would be as well.

"My best friend went to war again," he said tonelessly. "He went to war and left me behind."

Those pesky feelings were there again. The worry from the hand, the phone, the lack of John...

He was angry at John Watson now, angry that his only friend would think so little of himself to throw himself into a dangerous place _again_. Angry at himself for not realizing the truth and for giving John that opportunity to do this.

And he was humbled.

John... why would he do so much for _Sherlock?_

But not just John, was it?

_I don't have friends._ He had said it so many times, had thought John was his only friend. But look at the woman who constantly sneered at him. Throwing herself into this. Lestrade, who had helped plan it all and keep quiet. Even _Anderson _was trying to help (and probably not, but the thought was there and really, that in of itself was stunning).

Stamford had helped. Molly probably would too if John had asked.

Sherlock Holmes had... _friends._

The thought was astonishing.

But now those worries turned to himself, turned to John and Moriarty. Leverage, a shared past. What if Moriarty knew it was a lie now, from Sherlock's actions or lack thereof? What if he was just humoring John?

Sally spoke once more, "The Colonel's put out the criminal version of an APW on the Freak's head. First one to get a bullet between his eyes... well, you can do the math. The boss, sorry, Moriarty, and John, they don't know about it. Well, John does now. After everything yesterday, he told me to do what I felt was right. I told Greg and well..."

"And I told you."

Now that they were looking, the tell-tale signs of stress, worry and exhaustion were obvious on Lestrade. But his eyes were alert, active, planning...

"I gotta go," Sally said, slipping back into the disguise's voice, stepping out of the car. She walked fast, the bag clenched tightly, as the three in the car watched her go. She was soon roaming the streets until she found what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

The doctor opened the door when she knocked three times. "About time," he said. "Needed these."

"Sorry doc, there was a queue. Was gonna kip in an' take em, but ya said ta try an' blend in."

John nodded and turned, "Sebastian, how on earth did you get a cut on your leg? I have to know."

"The boss was experimenting with a nail gun and a new kind of bomb," Sebastian said from his seat, glowering at the bloody mess of a leg and nodding to the delivery boy. John sat next to him and began to silently tend to the injuries. It didn't take long, due to his experience with such wounds.

"_JIM!"_ It was a roar through the warehouse when he was finished and everyone in the room jumped.

A few seconds later, one Jim Moriarty was poking his head in. "Yes?"

"Look at what you did!" John indicated the leg.

"Oh. Apologies." He turned to John, "I have something for you. Come along."

John rolled his eyes and stood, walking with the criminal mastermind for a bit, both silent. They wandered through the warehouse and soon John found himself in an office where a bulldog puppy jumped on him.

He pet it instinctively, looking at Jim with confusion obvious on his features.

"I want what we once had," Jim said, not looking at John. "You trusted me once. You help me now, but you don't trust me."

"How can I?" John asked quietly. "Look at what you are."

"Why Sherlock?" Jim turned. "Why him? He doesn't know anything, doesn't appreciate anything, why?"

"He's a good man."

Jim scoffed and waved his hand, watching the puppy nibble on John's trousers. "His name is Gladstone. I thought you could use company while we're out. Heard you were so desperate for company you even talked to that maid."

"That's not desperate for company. That's just being polite." John pet the dog, trying hard to not think about this entire mad situation.

"What more do you want, John?" Jim sat down. "You judge me for this position and forget how without me controlling it, things would be even worse. It's precarious but at least power is centralized."

"You kill people without regard."

Jim glared, "As I recall, I once said that and you were the one who told me that everyone does, good or bad, and yeah, it's a damned shame, but that's what people do."

"That wasn't how I meant it and you know it."

It was quiet, and Jim said softly, "I once heard the really dangerous people believe they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do, that that is what makes them dangerous. So think, John, think very hard about whatever it is you have going on in your mind. Because as much as you despise me, you can remember what things were like before I was around. And as much as people might despise you, you'll be keeping them safe from people who are out gunning for a fix because _I'll know them all._"

John said nothing.

"And you might think your detective helps people, but you know the truth. He doesn't care about them and never will. He wants the game, the thrill, and that's it. And that makes him just as bad as me, worse in some cases because he has access to people in authority. You're fine with that, with someone controlling everything, with 1984 being real, but not with someone controlling crime." Jim stood up and left the office.

John sighed and looked at the puppy, who licked him.

"How do I get myself into these situations?" He mumbled, sighing and wondering what to do.


	12. Chapter 12

Without any answers to his question forthcoming, John had just retired to his room to sleep. And so a few hours later, in the middle of the night, he woke up, shaking his head. Some of the music he had heard from all of the places he had been to in the past few weeks must have gotten stuck in his head. If he had to hear Rossini _one more time..._

A cold wet nose pressed into his hand and he glanced down at Gladstone, who looked, as dogs usually did, quite happy to see his new owner.

"Come on then," John said, stretching and standing up. The puppy happily wagged his tail and ran by him as they went outside. It was a bit nippy in the night air.

There were footsteps in the quiet, and John turned to see Jim standing in the doorway. "Things are bad when you can't sleep." The consulting criminal said the words teasingly.

"Never would have guessed," John answered. "What's your excuse?"

"I'm a night owl," came the retort as the man strode forward and stood next to John, watching the dog play.

"Why are you so determined to make me stay this time?" John asked, not looking at the other man. "You have minions already." John manages to keep his voice calm, his face blank. "Because I quite clearly remember a lot of snipers prepared to aim at Sherlock's head."

Jim scoffed, "Anyone can hire an assassin or merc."

It was true. "I thought you would have brought up how they treat me or something to sway me."

"You know that better than I would."

They did walk all over him, John knew that much. They underestimated him constantly. It was frustrating, it really was, but at the same time, he was on the right side of the law. He had a good life. He was a patient man and could deal with the random kidnappings and cases and shooting at the wall and selfishness because it was better than being bored and useless.

_You're fine with that, with someone controlling everything, with 1984 being real, but not with someone controlling crime._

Jim had said that to him earlier, and the words still rung in his head.

This was too much to keep straight in his head, it was too much to focus on. It was just a bit longer, he knew, a few more days before this would be taken from his hands. Lestrade was preparing everything. Even if they moved, it was possible to find them now.

He had had to do things in his teens that made him ashamed. He had learned to push aside the moral questions before and the war had just reinforced that. He could second-guess himself all he wanted later, hate himself later. He was upset that people toyed with him, but he could take it. Better him than others being involved.

And yet, it was so... tempting, so easy to just turn the plan over, so easy to just let Jim have his way. Why not? Why not have one person control crime so that things could be easy to plan, to keep in focus? Was controlling a government any better, was allowing such things better? Having everyone play their little roles, everyone had a niche, it worked out for everyone in the end. But it'd escalate and then...

A hand rested on his shoulder. "I think you should turn in for the night. Come on." A whistle and the puppy ran ahead of them.

John just followed the consultant at that point, not realizing there were worried eyes on him. Sally was watching from an upstairs window. She knew the doctor didn't like this at all, didn't like all the deceit and masks and actions needed for it.

She knew she sure as hell didn't. But she had taken the task because she knew, even if nobody would ever admit it, that she wouldn't really be missed for long if she were found out.

A knock on her door made her turn and look at the Colonel, Sebastian Moran. Dangerous, beyond deadly with a rifle, and rather sadistic when it came to it. Fiercely loyal to those few that earned it and wouldn't leave a man behind. And for some reason, seemed to make sure he always acknowledged Sally when she was around.

It was nerve-wrecking.

"Saw your light on," the man said, joining her at the window. "Ah. Quite a puzzle, aren't they?"

Sally just nodded.

"Why are you here?"

"What?" She looked at him, and he was looking intently at her.

"You don't belong in this kind of life. And those idiots don't notice, but I know a woman when I see one. Why are you here? Who are you trying to look out for?"

"I-I-" Sally looked away, saying nothing.

"Listen to me. There's not enough money out there in the world for you to be working in a place like this, in this disguise." He tilted her head up, and Sally was surprised that his eyes held a bit of concern.

"Why does it matter?" She found herself asking. "What do you care?"

Sebastian laughed and shook his head, moving away. "I had a sister. Alice, but she... we grew up poor as hell." The mercenary rubbed his face, "I grew up, anyway. We shared a room, and I made her teddy bears out of old clothes. They didn't look anything like a damn bear but... she was little. She didn't know differently and she loved them. Loved me. You... you take that for granted sometimes."

Sally heard the word. _Had_. Past tense. Didn't realize she was worried for the man who had killed so many, who helped Moriarty run a criminal empire until she whispered, "What happened?"

"... I think it's why I get the doc, working all this when he was young," Sebastian muttered. "I found a way to make us money. I took it. And Alice, she got scared, she was always worried about me. She followed me one day. Not like anyone would tell her otherwise, cause our parents were useless. They didn't care. And one day, someone shot at me, and I didn't see her. She got in the way. And it hit her instead. The people, they weren't as fast as the doc, weren't there. And when we got to the hospital, our worthless parents wouldn't even come. Didn't visit. I was there, it was my hand she held for three days, due to complications in removing and fixing the wound. My hand she was holding when she died."

She opened her mouth to speak, but Sebastian cut her off. "Don't. I don't want one of my people to have the same thing happen to them. To lose someone they care about-"

"Nobody gives a damn about me," Sally interrupted over him. "I just needed the money. That's it. Nobody would hire a girl for this job and that's all it is."

Sebastian looked over her and scoffed quietly.

"What?"

"You're a horrible liar." He rubbed her shoulder before he turned to leave. "You need your rest. Trying counting sheep or thinking of something like a beach. We have an early run tomorrow." He walked to the door, his hand on the light switch. "Think about what I said, though. There's got to be a better way for you than this, even though I'm not going to lie. I'm glad someone with a brain is here to listen and do things right. But I still worry."

"I wasn't lying," Sally said. "No one would miss me."

Sebastian looked her up and down for a brief moment.

"... I would."

With that, the former colonel turned off the light and left, leaving Sally staring after him.

Perhaps this was why John Watson was so confused. She had seen the things done with her own eyes. But why bother trying to get her away from this?

She had a job to do. She just hoped that Greg Lestrade would understand if she wanted a nice long vacation after this was done.

Said DI was pacing in his office. Things were a mite better now that Sherlock wasn't moping around. He had jumped on cases after running to Bart's and interrogating Molly Hooper about some old boyfriend of hers. The DI remembered the Christmas party and had felt like a schoolboy when the pretty woman had smiled at him in the morgue.

He worried about so many people constantly that having a normal concern like finding someone cute made him want to laugh in relief. Having Sherlock interrogating and moving around constantly, knowing his sergeant was undercover as was someone he had come to consider a good friend... and then of course his issues at home...

He felt that after this, this team was owed a break.

"LESTRADE!" Sherlock's voice shouted as he ran into the room brandishing a folder. "Was the suspect in this wearing a polka-dot tie?"

"What? I don't know..."

"It's crucial to the case!" The detective shouted, running off again. "And if he was, then it'll fit!"

Greg Lestrade groaned and chased after the younger man. "What does it matter?" He demanded.

"He was in Moriarty's network!" came the shout back. "We need that TIE!"

Why him? He returned to his office and looked over everything.

In a day, less than that now that he had the elder Holmes helping with backup, that warehouse Sally had told him about would be the target of a raid. And that was always enough to set people on edge. He sighed and took out a nicotine patch before grabbing some coffee and sitting, hating the fact that waiting was the worst part.

The detective, on the other hand, was running towards where the person had been.

If the photos were right, the person who had been having the meeting was color-blind. That tie was the key because Sherlock didn't think that it was polka-dotted.

He felt it was blood on the tie, splotches of it. And the suspect in the case had been meeting with a friend, a friend with connections.

With Molly's verification earlier of her 'boyfriend' having moved around a lot and therefore knowing a lot of people and languages, well, knowing how to establish an alibi with someone that really was telling the truth wasn't hard, was it? And instructing his people to do so was simple too.

Find the suspect's 'friend,' odds were high the person would be someone under Moriarty. High enough to do their own hits.

And to do that, he'd need that tie.

Therefore, as always, the detective was running through the streets of London on a case. All he could do for now was hope that soon, his best friend would join him.

After all, he was lost without his blogger.


	13. Chapter 13

The consulting detective had made it back to the flat, pleased. A warehouse in East London. He had figured out the location and texted the information to Mycroft.

And he was sure his brother would be _very_ happy to use this in exchange for a favor. But Sherlock had grudgingly done it because he wanted to try to help his friend. John was worth having to help Mycroft. And, well, the police were incompetent. Lestrade was willing to wait too long, even Mycroft agreed. They would strike tonight, when the people there wouldn't be ready. Sherlock didn't trust anyone, not really. John would be back soon and he couldn't wait.

Opening the door led to a surprise though. Sherlock stopped still at the door before catching himself and asking, "What are you doing here?"

Irene Adler turned and looked at him. "I expected a better greeting than _that._" She indicated the laptop. "I like to keep up with things. Nothing's gone on for a while."

"You were worried about me." Sherlock's tone was rather condescending as he hung up his jacket. "How nice. Now leave."

The woman just smiled before saying, "I _do_ owe you a favor."

"I'll consider it repaid if you go away." Sherlock answered, walking past her to the kitchen.

"Save a girl and push her away?" Irene chuckled, "It's obvious that you've earned your nickname."

Sherlock glared at her.

"On a more serious note, you work best when you have someone to talk with." The woman indicated herself before leaning forward.

"You're supposed to fade away. No point in having helped you otherwise."

"Dull and boring," Irene answered. She stretched, "Do you want me to beg? I'll just wear a disguise or something, be your sidekick for now. I'm so eager to catch up and hear everything, after all."

"I have a blogger for all of that, thank you," Sherlock snapped.

He had no idea said blogger was staring at a computer screen in complete and utter shock. Irene Adler was _alive?_

"I thought we agreed you'd go to bed." Jim's voice rang out from behind him. "Early to bed, early to rise and all of that."

"S-She's alive," John stammered.

The consulting criminal came up behind him and looked at the screen. Oh, it was just her. "Yes. Why? Do you want me to change that fact?" He looked over at a stunned John and wisely bit his tongue, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder. He had plans, yes, Jim always had plans, but he had genuinely thought that Sherlock had told his only friend that much.

But, well, who needed plans when Sherlock was doing all of his work for him? Really, he didn't have to go out of his way it seemed; the others were practically determined to drive John Watson away.

Their loss would be Jim's gain. A _huge_ gain at that.

He didn't voice this either, stating instead,"Come on. There's an early morning run. I think Seb won't mind doing it earlier."

The doctor didn't react.

"I said to _COME ON!"_

The shout did it, making John jump and look at Jim gratefully before nodding and shutting the computer off. He had been worried about Sherlock. He truly had.

There wasn't much point of that now. He just followed, numb. Secrets, lies and insults. He had gotten over the experiment involving Harry and Clara because nobody had been hurt, not really, it had been a good excuse and he had been frustrated.

But now he really had to think, didn't he?

"Focus on the mission, John," Jim's voice said quietly from in front of him. "Think about that instead."

Right. Mission. A run, Jim had said. Probably mixture of illegal firearms and narcotics. How to prepare for that.

"Seb," Jim said to the former Colonel. "Get a team up. We'll do the run now."

"Now?" Sebastian Moran blinked a few times, tired but aware. He looked at Jim confusedly before turning to John. Perhaps whatever expression was on the man's face convinced him that this was worth it because he nodded. "Give me three minutes, boss."

"We'll be at the side door." Jim led John to said door, repressing the urge to just shout at the doctor to leave those dolts behind and do the obvious thing. Forcing John Watson to do things would just be worthless. He led the way, John following behind.

In two minutes, Sebastian had a group yawning but ready. They left the warehouse rather quickly, having done this multiple times before. They were at the site loading up when Sebastian's mobile began to ring.

"What-" He stopped at the frantic tone on the other end.

"Raid, sir, there's a raid!"

"Boss, there's a raid," Sebastian said immediately, causing everyone to look at him in surprise.

"Not normal cops, MI-5!"

"MI-5."

"Storehouse eleven," Jim snapped immediately. "If any of them get out."

"They won't," John said quietly. "Too sudden. Top brass. You know."

Sebastian looked suspiciously at him before Jim whirled. "Of course. You're right. That annoying interfering man. Not even a day."

"What?" Sally asked, looking back and forth.

Both John and Moriarty turned towards her, in one perfect movement. She hadn't seen that level of unison even with the doctor and the Freak. "Sherlock Holmes," both of them said at the same time, earning looks from everyone.

"The Iceman decided to take a crack at us," Moriarty mused. He turned to the doctor, "I think we owe a certain detective our thanks though."

"What? You just said he was the reason this happened," Sebastian muttered, causing Sally to try rather hard to not smile. "Now you're saying to thank him."

John just shrugged before his head shot up, "Gladstone."

Moriarty's eyes widened a bit too before he hissed, "They won't do anything to a puppy."

Right. Moriarty liked dogs. Good to know. "Um... boss? Doc?" She tried, making them look over. "Shouldn't we get goin'?"

Sebastian flashed her a smile, as did the others. It was obvious they had all been thinking the same thing.

Moriarty looked at her and back at Sebastian before looking at John, who nodded. "Go on," the criminal mastermind said. "Load them up."

The group went off to do so, Sebastian making sure he was near Sally, who was hefting some heavier weapons. "I don't need help," she complained when he took some.

"Of course not, you wouldn't be here if you couldn't do it," Sebastian said back. "I'm just loading too."

She rolled her eyes and just continued to work. The former Colonel smiled, "Though you know... just saying... what you did just now?"

"Yeah..."

"You've got more guts than most around here."

Sally glanced at the smirking mercenary and asked, despite herself, "More than you even?"

"I said _most_, not all."

The conversation was covered by the noise and rabble of everything around them. "So... why are _you_ in this business?" She asked.

He looked at her thoughtfully for a brief second and said, shrugging, "I'm good at it." He looked at her, his eyes faraway, distant. "I'm the best."

The voice would have made her shudder and fall silent before. This was the Colonel, as the others dubbed him. He was _Sebastian Moran. _Best among killers, assassins... when criminals told horror stories, they talked about Moriarty and Moran.

_The man who held his dying sister's hand, who asked why you were in this field for no reason._ Sally looked at him, really looked. She couldn't forget that he was known among killers for being the best, could not forget that he killed for the highest bidder, would slit anyone's throat for the right price; oh no, she couldn't forget that particular fact at all. But that was no reason to not learn a bit more about him, right? "But you're... everyone says you were a colonel. Why did you leave the military? I mean, colonel isn't a rank you get overnight, right?"

He looked at her intently for a few seconds before saying, "I didn't leave willingly. I never have tolerated failure well. And well, higher-ups disagreed with my methods of ensuring no one failed."

Oh, Sally knew _all _about annoying higher-ups. But she had a feeling that the methods probably were worth making him leave for. Probably not very nice ones at all. "That's... a shame."

The man gave a rare grin and said, "Oh yes, not least because I made the uniform look good."

She laughed despite herself and teased, "Oh so handsome and dashing in your uniform?"

"I'm glad you agree I'm oh so handsome," Sebastian retorted with a smirk. Sally rolled her eyes and they were soon too busy working to talk much more. Finally, they were finished, the deal done and they were off to another storehouse.

The one that they had been at before, however, was insane with activity, people shooting and defending, some leaving. Mycroft Holmes was watching all of this from afar and all too soon it was over. But the teams reported that not everyone was there, that whoever ran the operation and a few others weren't around.

Including the medic.

Their launch by surprise had somehow not managed to work. How? There was no way Moriarty could have known.

_Wasn't there, though? There was no way for a bomb to go off in the office either..._

Mycroft forced himself to breathe deeply. No. He had thoroughly checked all of his staff. It wasn't them. He was relatively sure that it had been John Watson himself who had strategically placed the bomb in the office. He was authorized to pass, after all. And because no one had been hurt due to it, he knew the doctor had made the timer a bit longer to ensure no causalities.

It was obvious when he had known all the angles.

But John Watson would not have known about this raid. Lestrade didn't know about it, so Sergeant Donovan couldn't have. It wasn't either of them.

The only thing that Mycroft Holmes could think of... was that James Moriarty had somehow... outwitted both him _and_ Sherlock. He had known what would happen and had reacted first. And had left people behind to cover it.

His phone rang, giving him a bit of a surprise. The number was the ones he had watching Sherlock. "Report."

"Your brother has someone in his flat, sir. A woman. Files indicate one Irene Adler, status on file deceased. But she's in the flat."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. _Sherlock_. He huffed out a breath with obvious irritation. "Thank you."

His brother did try his patience sometimes. His best friend throwing himself into undercover work and Sherlock allowing her to use that as an excuse to get close. This was primary school material.

Though he did worry about Sherlock constantly. And if that woman made him happy... Mycroft sighed, thinking about it. He cared about his brother, enough that he knew he would have given in to Irene Adler's demands. It would have cost a fortune, would have probably left his career in tatters, but he would have done it to keep Sherlock safe.

Caring wasn't an advantage. He knew that first hand. And yet it seemed that was being thrown into constant question right now.

That wasn't important, though. He had a nation to run and other places and things to worry about. And so far, it was turning out to be a relatively normal day, keeping the military testing bases quiet, making sure a media blackout regarding the things in the sewers stayed in place, having a meeting with an ambassador, making sure his agents caught that annoying assassin...

Yes, all in all it was normal until Gregory Lestrade slammed in once more.

"Do you think we don't know how to do our jobs?" The DI snarled, looking beyond furious with an apologetic looking Anthea behind him. "One hint of knowledge and you ruin it!"

"We were only doing what we thought was best," Mycroft said, waving his hand. It wasn't a concern, not when they had two people there undercover. It would be easy to track them down again.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, "Yeah. I bet." He turned to leave and stopped at the door. "Guess I'll have to start doing the same." With that, he was gone.

Curious (and slightly concerned, though he'd never admit it aloud), Mycroft decided to up the security status on the DI.

Just in case.

* * *

**_A/N: If you're reading the same chapter twice, my sincere apologies. It wasn't showing up on my end and I grew a tad concerned, so I deleted it and re-posted. _**

**_Thank you!_**


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